Tearing Up My Outer Skin
by MissLouisa
Summary: MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING: SELF HARM CENTRIC FIC. I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH. Rated M for this alone Sherlock does not enjoy feeling. Sherlock would rather not feel at all. So he's developed a method to block it out. He feels it's working rather well, until he starts losing control of it


**Major trigger warning: fairly graphic depictions of self harm are in this fic, and the plot surrounds self harm. **

This was written for tiestomyheart for the Johnlock Challenges fic exchange. Many thanks to my betas Data and Cass, without them it would not have been possible.

* * *

In all honesty, he was quite surprised it remained beneath Mycroft's notice (or perhaps, Mycroft, too, understood the need for one last vice). But then, Sherlock was practised at hiding it. It did not have obvious physical effects like the cocaine had, no scent, like the smoking, and it was easy. Subtle, easy, something he could be careful with. It didn't make him lose his head - that was important.

Sherlock is, by all accounts, perfectly sane. A little grating, operating under the label of sociopath, and yes, an ex-addict, but he was not in need of medication. He was certain of it.

He knows that in other circumstances he would be a clich? a mess, someone whose family members ought to keep an eye on (which is funny, really, because Mycroft is obsessed with keeping an eye on him) but he is not. That is important. That is the most important thing.

Everyone has vices, after all - he knows for a fact that after a bad break up John _does_ go out and get liberally drunk, even if he hates himself for it for at _minimum_ a week afterwards. He knows Lestrade has completely isolated himself after his divorce, focusing on his work in an effort to not think, at all (which Sherlock finds a little bit hilarious - Lestrade rarely ever thinks).

So when Sherlock partakes in his routine, after a gruelling case, in the middle of a long gap between other cases, he sees no reason to feel guilty. Guilt, he finds, is probably the most useless emotion.

And it is, after all, the emotions that he's trying to ignore.

There is a box of razorblades secreted on the top shelf of his bathroom cabinet, tucked behind a box of supermarket brand ibuprofen.

Sherlock plucks out one, because there's only one he really uses, and places it next to the sink. The door is locked - he checked. He runs the tap, loud, and holds his bare wrist over the sink, gripping the razorblade.

He looks at his reflection.

He wonders what on earth John would make of this, and then the razorblade flits across his wrist.

Once. Twice.

Three times.

Blood begins to bead at the cuts but he doesn't feel pain just yet. Just relief, aching at his bones. The case is over. He's not thinking too much yet. He just needs to stop feeling, for a little bit.

And it's worked, and he knows it has, as he breaths in, out, once, twice, and fetches the antiseptic wipes.

It takes two hours for that little rush to fade away, but Sherlock knows it'll take the edge off for weeks. More if he gets a case.

Although, after Moriarty, after John being dressed up in a bomb jacket, Sherlock tore his wrist to shreds. He couldn't stand it, the guilt (unfounded, useless), the worry, and the fear.

Sherlock had never been scared before. He was not about to start now. He regrets the scars, though - thin white lines, some pinker than others, (one, particularly regrettable, remains purple even months later). Sometimes, just looking at them calms him down, though. He doesn't try to understand why - as Mycroft is always so keen to point out, emotions are not Sherlock's forte, certainly not his own.

But John would misunderstand this simple act, and the state of mind it places Sherlock in.

Sherlock is not a suicide risk. Sherlock is not clinically depressed. He has a coping mechanism, an unhealthy coping mechanism (although he would argue, compared to past behaviour this is a remarkably healthy coping mechanism), and it's fine. It's okay.

It's been going on for years. He won't stop doing it, because it's not a problem.

That's the argument Sherlock has planned when John no doubt sees the scars, one day in the not too distant future. Sherlock and John are inching towards something (though Sherlock struggles to identify what), and he has no doubt there will be a level of trust involved.

So he'll brace himself, and enter that conversation prepared.

Sherlock Holmes is absolutely _not_ afraid of being honest with John Watson.

Which is good, as it turns out. A few months later, when John finds out, his reaction is unexpected. Sherlock has to adjust his perception of the man once again.

Sherlock has been partaking in his routine more often of late - their cases are few and far between, and he dies a little inside every time somebody asks him to seek out a cheating partner. The boredom aches inside him, makes him think too much, and he hates it.

He needs to stop thinking, and feeling. So he does.

And the feeling of the sharp edge slicing across his wrist, beads of blood forming, endorphins rushing, works so well. He's careful, he's always careful, and he drops the bloodied antiseptic wipes in the bin and carries on as normal.

He's doing it for the third time in a week. This has never happened before, honestly, but he feels like every hour he went without, every hour he tried and failed to focus on something factual, something tangible, he loses his grip on anything resembling sanity, resembling intelligence.

His perception of the world is crumbling a little at the edges so he cuts deeper and faster and blood drips down his arm, just a little to the side, and drops on the clean white tiles, a perfect circle of shiny red liquid.

And then, what he'd been waiting for, but dreading all the same; John taps lightly on the door, Sherlock still staring at that perfect circle, wondering how exactly his need for clear thought had led him here.

John is out. Wasn't he out? Why is John here?

Sherlock hasn't locked the door because John is _out_, at the shops, or having coffee with Mike, or Mrs Hudson, or someone irrelevant.

Why isn't the door locked?

Sherlock, clutching antiseptic wipes in his hand, wipes the crimson away from his arm, and tries very, very hard not to swear. There are angry red lines across his wrist, already beading blood again. Sherlock frowns, and rolls down his sleeve.

"John?" he calls, and turns off the tap.

John pushes open the door. "Alright?" he says, with raised eyebrows, and then Sherlock makes the mistake of remembering there's blood on the floor and glances down at it.

John does too.

"Is that bl-"

"Blood, yes," Sherlock says, firmly. "It's from an experiment."

John raises an eyebrow, then glances around the rest of the bathroom. Sherlock frowns. He'd have been able to think it through if he'd managed to complete his routine properly, he's certain.

"Is that your blood?" John asks, and Sherlock wonders why, if he has a brain, he fails to use it at least 50% of the time.

Sherlock nods, and makes a dismissive hand gesture. Apparently, though, that's the wrong move, because now John can see Sherlock's sleeve sticking to him. Sherlock winces. He reminds himself to think, in future (and then ponders that of course, John is the only person Sherlock could ever stop thinking around).

"Sherlock?" John asks, taking a step closer.

"It's nothing, John, really, I'm just examining the coagulation rate on tile."

John frowns. "You should at least let me dress it for you."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, acting exasperated. "Why?"

John smiles. "Doctor, remember?"

Several things connect in his brain - John is not suspicious, John is not concerned, John is just being John. _Oh,_ he thinks, but then realises that John still wants to look at his wrist, that John will still _see_.

To Sherlock's surprise, John makes no comment. He cleans the wound silently, sitting on the edge of the bath, and then wraps it in gauze.

"You're not suicidal," John says, after a silence long enough that Sherlock was wondering what would happen if he got up and left.

"No," Sherlock agrees, "I'm not."

"Then why-"

"It helps me focus," Sherlock says, stiffly.

"Is it worth that much?" John says, and Sherlock looks at him like he's an idiot, but John's not watching him. John is staring at the tiles on the floor, and Sherlock can't quite make sense of his expression.

"John," Sherlock says insistently, but when John doesn't look up he still tries to explain. "It's about - not thinking about other things. It pushes away distractions."

"Distractions," John says flatly, tiredly.

"Like you," Sherlock says, helpfully. John blinks rapidly and Sherlock considers what he's said.

John starts to speak as though his throat has closed up a little. "I'm something you need to push away, Sherlock?" he asks, but he doesn't sound offended. Only a little sick with himself, Sherlock thinks, though he doesn't understand quite why.

"My feelings, John. They're the problem."

John shakes his head in disbelief. "Feelings aren't always bad," John says, and then he stands up, washes his hands, and leaves the bathroom.

All without looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock finds himself sitting alone in the bathroom, examining the conversation, playing it in his head over and over again. It hurts, like a physical pain, that John has left him here, abandoned him to his vices. He'd expected John to cry, be angry, something, at least. Not ask questions and then just leave. Sherlock had expected... more, from John, somehow.

With the loss of John at his side, Sherlock finds himself itching for the razorblade again, and it occurs to him that perhaps he really is losing control of this, that it's becoming a compulsion. Another addiction he needs to kick.

Instead of reaching for the packet of razorblades, he goes and finds John.

"I don't want to want you," Sherlock says, leaning against the door to the kitchen. John is washing the dishes, scrubbing with ferocity that Sherlock is reasonably certain isn't required. (Sherlock doesn't do the dishes very often.)

"Is that why you do it?" John says, through gritted teeth, and Sherlock frowns, because that was almost what he'd said but not quite. It's a little infuriating having to explain himself, but it's to John, and John matters.

John needs to understand this, it's important.

"I don't do relationships, John," he says, quite seriously, because he doesn't and he hasn't.

"That's not what I asked," John says, tiredly. He's still staring fixedly at the tap. Sherlock wonders if his reflection is visible in the shiny metal, but he's reasonably certain that his face is not something John wants to see.

"Do you ever have thoughts you wish you didn't think?" Sherlock says, and John's scrubbing slows a little, as if perhaps he understands.

But Sherlock knows what he implied and it's not that, it's not that at all.

"Not about you," John says quietly, and Sherlock makes the connection.

He frowns. "You're not anybody else," he says, trying to articulate exactly what John represents. "You're someone I need by my side, but I can't have you there and have feelings too. It's incompatible."

"You need to focus," John says, restating the facts as Sherlock's said them to him.

"I'm married to my work, John."

Sherlock's a little sad that he has to trot out that tired old line in a conversation that matters. This has to end well. He doesn't know what he'll do, otherwise.

"You need me, but you don't want me, and your intelligence is more important than your sanity."

Sherlock swallows. John understands a little too much, perhaps.

He doesn't say anything, but he waits for John to speak. There must be more coming, Sherlock needs John to find these words for him.

"I want to help you," John says, and he sounds so sad that Sherlock wants to unsay everything, pretend the whole day has never happened.

"I know," Sherlock says, "but it's too important."

John's shoulders slump a little. "Not wanting me is too important. Do you want me to move out?"

"You said it yourself, I need you."

"I'm sure you'd find something else to replace me with," but John still doesn't sound angry.

Sherlock swallows. "What on earth could replace _you_, John?"

"Anything that doesn't require you to hurt yourself."

"I've been doing it since long before you came along."

"Thanks. I feel much better now." John's sarcasm bites at Sherlock, itching at his skin because he's not reacting the way he should, the way Sherlock predicted. He can't map out this conversation because he doesn't know where John is _going_.

And John still won't turn and face him.

"Remember when we had that conversation? Caring about these people, the people behind the puzzles I'm solving, it will only hinder the process. I'm preventing that from happening, I'm creating a barrier between my mind and everything else."

"And I need to be included in that?"

John has turned to face him, and Sherlock is unsurprised by the agony depicted on John's face.

_(That's what I do to him, this is awful, I need to...)_

_I need to answer his question._

"There's no room for error in these cases, John," Sherlock says, but that isn't quite what he meant to say. He's caught halfway between _I want to try loving you_, and _I want you out of my sight_.

"I haven't slowed you down before, have I?" John says, and his eyes search Sherlock's face as if trying to catalogue it. As if he's facing imminent separation, Sherlock realises, and hates himself for it.

Sherlock shakes his head. "It's a risk."

"You love risks," John says.

Sherlock frowns. "You're not the whole problem. I'm not going to stop doing it."

"It's getting worse, though, isn't it?" John says, and Sherlock blinks at him in surprise.

He tries out a particularly eloquent shrug, wondering if he'll maintain the fa?de that it's all a bit irrelevant, all just transport, but John knows him far too well now.

"You can be honest with me, at least," John says, and Sherlock thinks he might have imagined the flash of hurt on John's face.

He nods. "It's getting worse. I had it under control, I swear."

John smiles, a little sadly. "They always do, don't they?"

"If I stopped - what would I do instead?"

"Nicotine patches don't do enough?"

Sherlock shakes his head.

"Maybe you should eat more," John says, his mouth twisted in an almost-grin.

"Maybe," Sherlock says, and everything is a little bit more okay as John leans against the counter, watching him a little too closely.

Sherlock is still waiting for the judgement, but it never seems to come.

"Have you thought about therapy?" John says, a month later, when Sherlock has slipped back into his routine once more.

The look Sherlock gives John informs him quite rapidly that therapy will not be an option for Sherlock.

Sherlock and John are still feeling the edges of their relationship, trying not to sever their ties to sanity and reason, and Sherlock has promised to be honest with John, about every day that's a little bit bad. And he is, and he can see it hurting John every time.

"Is there anything I can do?" John says quietly, and Sherlock frowns at him. He's privately expecting the inevitable quiet fury and disappointment, but as always, John defies expectations. There was certainly bewilderment, and a little self-blame, but other than that no true reaction to provoke Sherlock into something, anything that's not this endless circling of what they were working towards.

Sherlock has the understanding that John doesn't want him, not wholly, until he's better, until he's a little more okay. Sherlock understands, but he loathes it nonetheless.

"I'm trying," Sherlock says, and he hates that it comes out petulant and almost whiny because it's true, he is, he knows he went too far. But the cocaine was easier, somehow, to quit than this. When Sherlock does not want to reach for the razorblade he wants to bang his head against the walls or just stop eating forever. He hates the feelings in the pit of his stomach, the physical power they contain.

He doesn't want to feel like this, he never has, and he's found ways to block it out. That's what he does, and John understands, to an extent.

But John thinks he should find safer ways of blocking them out, or just let them in.

(Sherlock has considered using John as a shield against the emotions piercing his armour, but John only seems to provoke more of an attack, and before long he has to take cover once more.)

"Do you want to stop?" John says seriously.

Sherlock's a little worried that one day John will realise he's the reason for all of this. Sherlock's not doing it for John, he's doing it because of him. Doing it for him would be wasteful, Sherlock thinks. There's so many nicer things Sherlock would prefer to do for John.

"Sometimes," Sherlock says, because he did agree to be honest. "But I need something. I can't just let them in," he says, and John smiles tenderly.

Sherlock frowns.

"You let me in," John says, and Sherlock frowns more.

"How do you deal with them?" he says, even though that isn't anywhere near the question he wants to ask.

"Feelings? It's not a matter of dealing with them. They just happen, Sherlock."

"But when somebody dies - when a patient of yours dies, or you only just saved someone, or you have absolutely nothing to do but _think_, John, how do you _cope_?"

John answers slowly. "I have a therapist," he starts, but waves Sherlock's mouth shut. "It's about coping mechanisms, Sherlock, and all of yours are phenomenally unhealthy. We just need to replace them."

"That doesn't remove the addiction."

"No, but - it doesn't have to be a negative addiction. In Uni, when I was stressed, I used to go to the gym a lot. Exercise produces endorphins, and it's just a way to get it out."

Sherlock considers this.

"On cases where there's a long chase, a lot of running, maybe even a fight... what's it like after?"

"It takes... longer," Sherlock says, still unwilling to call it by its name. "I don't feel the urge so often."

"That's good," John says. "Wouldn't you rather work with that?"

"But what about you?" Sherlock asks, and John frowns.

Sherlock pauses. "How I feel about you."

John shrugs. "That's up to you, you know that. If you want to shut it away, then that's okay too."

Privately, Sherlock thinks that exercising would be wasting more than a little of his time, and that he'll wait and see.

What happens with John happens, he decides, but he vows to go for a run next time he feels the urge.

It doesn't work.

Today he is bored, endlessly bored, and there are feelings crowding in on him, edging in on his observations. He's aching a little from the overwhelming feeling of missing John, who is at work and eminently not here. He considers texting him, but wants to not show weakness.

Which is, in itself, a sign of weakness.

Oh, how he _loathes_ this.

It is not like the cocaine because he does not have an expensive rehabilitation program and the threat of the work being taken away from him. John knows he needs the work, that without it he will only dive further into the arms of this new, sharper addiction. But John doesn't understand that in order to do the work, he has to do this.

Sherlock wants to replace his addiction, but he can't think of anything better to replace it with. He's still craving the rush of all natural endorphins, to block out the concern for the kidnap victims and _John_.

Always John. Sherlock almost wishes he'd never met the man.

Sherlock does not exercise when it happens. He goes to the bathroom, instead, and opens the cupboard above the sink, and frowns.

Because his tools are out of place, and nobody but John would have removed them, and suddenly he is spittingly furious, distracted entirely from the urge that brought him here in the first place.

John does not have the right, Sherlock is convinced, and it feels rather proprietary that John has invaded his space in such a way, assumed control of actions. Sherlock has no doubts that he would be able to figure out the whereabouts of his razorblades if he gave it the thought, but right now the point is important. And the point has never really been important before.

Sherlock wants to drag John out of his workplace by his hair because it doesn't _matter_ if John was trying to help because all this does is emphasise that John does not _understand_. That John is not worth his time.

As soon as Sherlock texts Mycroft demanding alternative living arrangements _at once_, John walks through the door of the flat and Sherlock is forced to decide on a more immediate form of action.

That is, he realises he's going to have to discuss this like an adult.

Sherlock finds the emergency pack of cigarettes and slides past John. He's moving a little too fast and a little shakily, making him certain John will follow him. He sits down on the doorstep and tugs out a cigarette, and as he's lighting up John sits down beside him.

"You noticed, then?" he says, and Sherlock scowls.

"You shouldn't have-"

"I know," John interrupts. "I wasn't trying to control you, Sherlock. I just wanted to see how long it would take-"

"You were testing me?" Sherlock is incredulous, and not even close to placated.

"A whole month, Sherlock. That's good, isn't it?"

Sherlock's brain stutters. He's lasted a month? He hadn't even felt the urge until today, and even then it went away as soon as he had something to focus on. Perhaps John should just do something impossibly dense whenever Sherlock feels the urge and it will make him angry enough to forget.

(Doesn't solve the other problem, Sherlock thinks, the one about being overwhelmed by the sickly, pathetic emotions.)

"Why are you still here?" Sherlock asks.

John frowns. "Because you're you, Sherlock. Why would I leave?"

"I don't want you here," Sherlock spits, "It's only got worse since you've been here. I don't need your help or your pity. _Leave_," Sherlock says, hoping John will both listen to him and not listen to him at all.

John seems a little dumbstruck, so Sherlock clears things up for him.

"I am not yours to heal or to fix. I'm not yours at all," he says, and John shuts his eyes.

"Sherlock," he says, and Sherlock wants to hit him for sounding so utterly wounded.

"What?" Sherlock snaps.

John is breathing in and out, deliberately, as if clinging desperately onto calmness. "We both know you can outsmart everyone, even yourself. And I won't leave until you give me a real reason."

Sherlock taps the ash off his cigarette, staring vaguely at the cars passing on the road. Suddenly, he wishes he'd chosen to have this conversation indoors, if only to make the inevitable rejection a little less public.

"You need to leave because we're going to destroy each other," Sherlock says. "And you're worth much more than that."

John opens his eyes. "You think I'm going to let you _near_ me after this mess? This is just about helping you now."

Sherlock swallows. "Excellent. Then we're in agreement, you'll move out. I don't want to be helped."

"No, Sherlock," John says. "I'm sticking around for a while." But he sounds so exhausted and Sherlock is overwhelmed by the urge to just clutch at him and never let him go.

But he's pretty sure that wouldn't help anything, so he stubs out his cigarette and walks back into Baker Street.

John remains on the doorstep for the rest of the evening.

It takes Sherlock a further week to recover from the detritus left by that conversation, but he takes two cases anyway, and works himself to the bone. He doesn't invite John, and Lestrade notices.

Nobody comments when Sherlock rolls up his sleeves to do an experiment, and Sherlock likes it better that way, with nobody interfering. Mycroft pays him a visit, though, and that's less pleasant.

Especially when he inquires about John.

It's in the aftermath of this meeting, though, that Sherlock decides he needs to stop this, once and for all. There is a quiet resolution in the line of his shoulders as he opens the bathroom cupboard and throws out his razorblades, but he doesn't tell John. Let him figure it out himself, he thinks, and then he goes back to brooding on alternatives.

He loathes the phrase "coping mechanism", though, and he won't look for an alternative for that. He shouldn't need to cope with what's in his own head, it should just _be_.

It takes only two days for Sherlock to be aware that John has noticed - it's in the way he looks a little more relaxed when Sherlock is bored (although Sherlock hopes John isn't too relaxed - even while they're at their impasse, Sherlock would not like John to be kidnapped again), and the way he doesn't ask to many questions now. Sherlock too, doesn't acknowledge what they both know, but he feels a little grateful to John for not bringing it up, for just trusting him to handle it.

Their conversations are still a little stilted, and Sherlock finds himself wanting John simultaneously by his side and out of the flat. It's difficult, but he copes (and is relieved that he doesn't appear to need a coping mechanism at all.)

It is a further three weeks before Sherlock truly feels that urge again, before he wholeheartedly misses his routine. He sits on the edge of the bath, staring at the cupboard above the sink, and feeling a sense of longing.

Even though there's nothing in there that he could use.

Of course, John usually does the shopping and Sherlock is aware what is and isn't the norm for his own behaviour. Instead of seeking out a method of soothing his rapidly festering, crowding mind, he goes and finds John.

And hopes that perhaps it ends a little better than last time, though he wouldn't admit that for the world.

John is typing up a case (perhaps he'll be less emotional than usual, Sherlock thinks, before frowning and realising that he's actually going to have to talk to John about emotions), and the living room exudes a homely feel.

Sherlock would never have noticed it if he hadn't given up his routine. He finds, quite suddenly, that he hates it.

"Sherlock?" John turns in his chair, probably assuming Sherlock has a case or a reason for them to leave the flat. Probably not assuming that Sherlock wishes he could linger in the doorway, that he is faltering in his decision to enter the room, to have this conversation.

"I need your help," he says, his voice gravelly, and he hates himself for it.

John blinks, a little surprised, but nods. "Okay," he says. "Is it..." he trails off, somehow failing to put it into words.

"How do I stop it? I want to... I want to wring his neck, the man from the last case, for what he did."

John half-smiles. "You know that's completely normal."

"It doesn't help! It doesn't do anything, it performs no function; feeling is an utterly useless ability. If anything, it hinders me, it gets in the way of thinking rationally and solving the case."

"What if it could help?"

Sherlock stares at him. "Don't be absurd."

John sighs, but he's smiling. "I'm not being absurd. Use the anger to... motivate you. When it's a case about something personal - when I was kidnapped - didn't that make you want to find me faster?"

Sherlock looks at him. "Bad example," he says, and John immediately catches on.

"You hurt yourself because of what happened at the pool?" John asks, but he sounds tender and Sherlock doesn't want him to sound tender.

"It was overwhelming. Unacceptable," he adds.

"But -" John pauses, "do you think that's because of me? Otherwise, it made you faster?"

"Because of how I felt about you at the time?" Sherlock clarifies. John flushes, and nods. Sherlock refuses to get John's hopes up - John is leaving as soon as he will be convinced.

"It may have been relevant," Sherlock concedes. "But it doesn't matter. It will be a hindrance. Will have an aftermath."

"Does it have to, though? You managed to give up drugs, couldn't you give up this as well?"

"I require a vice. Mycroft understands," Sherlock says, and John smirks.

Did Sherlock just use Mycroft to deride John? He frowns at himself, for a moment, then re-joins the conversation halfway through John's sentence.

"...got one, some people have got several. It's not just the perils of being a genius, we all cope."

Sherlock doesn't know if John means he's got a vice (what is it? He knows about the pub nights, but he must be talking about something more constant than that, surely), or if he's talking about people in general.

"I don't want to cope, I want to get rid of them," Sherlock says through gritted teeth.

John frowns. "That's not healthy, Sherlock. You can't just pack them into boxes and pretend they don't exist."

"I can," Sherlock says.

John shakes his head, looking a little sad, but says no more about it.

Sherlock is overwhelmed by a rush of gratitude, and an odd urge to kiss his friend. "What am I supposed to do with the boredom?"

"Come to me," John says. "Hasn't this helped?"

Sherlock is a little stunned that he is forced to concede that it has. He feels better, the urge has gone away.

Maybe he _does_ need a therapist.

As John is about to turn away, Sherlock moves a little closer to him, and kisses him on the cheek. They're both blushing furiously when Sherlock turns and leaves the room, feeling a little better.

Maybe, if John helps him, if they get their friendship back to where it was, or where it was leading, he could do this. But he's starting to reach the terrifying realisation that he really can't do this by himself.

It takes Sherlock a further three weeks before he starts admitting to himself that it is getting better. He still wants to do it, needs to do it, and has to try a little harder to focus when there is a particularly brutal case. Itﾒs hard - but so had been giving up cocaine, and he'd managed that. At least there is no painful, overwhelming withdrawal this time. Just an aching to get rid of the feelings, to let them go.

Somehow, though, instead of being a distraction, something that sends him into the depths of whatever empty places he'd found, his feelings for John are okay. The lingering touches and the flirting ﾖ itﾒs okay now, he can handle them.

Which sadly, both John and Lestrade have noticed. Lestrade now offers him teasing yet chiding smiles every time John makes one of his usual exclamations, and John is just... well.

Sherlock can't deny he's been pretty terrible to John (although he rather feels that at times, John deserved it,) but today, in Baker Street, when he _should_ be bored out of his mind and searching for something to stop him thinking, he finds all he wants to do is catalogue everything about John. Reorganise his mind palace, so John is at the centre of everything, attach him intrinsically to the whole entire world.

Yes, Sherlock doesn't think that's a terrible idea at all.

But he waits, and he bides his time, because this has to be better, he has to be okay, before they can work on what-happens-next. And Sherlock knows John is entirely too honest with him, and will tell him to fuck off if Sherlock even tries to do something unusually reckless (chasing after criminals not-withstanding).

It isn't until six full months after John first walked into the bathroom where a drop of shiny red blood was waiting on the floor that they have another Conversation.

"You haven't moved out yet," Sherlock observes.

John looks up at him and smiles. "We both know you couldn't bear it if I left," he says.

Sherlock regards him. "You are far too stubborn for your own good," he says, and John snorts.

"You are the most ridiculous man I've ever met."

Sherlock considers this. "Yes," he says, and John giggles loudly.

"You're okay," John says, after quieting a bit.

Sherlock eyes him, but nods. "I am. It's - it might not ever go away. With the cocaine, it... it wasn't a crutch the same way this was."

"That's okay," John says.

Sherlock nods. "Does that bother you?"

John smiles gently. "Not at all," he says, and Sherlock thinks he shouldn't feel quite so relieved.

"Alright," Sherlock says, and steps a little closer to John. "It's okay if I do... this, then?" he says, leaning down close, until their breath mingles. John's pupils dilate, and Sherlock has to try really hard not to feel triumphant.

"That's..." John trails off. "Completely fine," he finishes eventually.

Sherlock swallows, and presses his lips to John's, still giving him the choice to pull away. Their kiss deepens, and Sherlock finds himself wondering if this is what it's all been about.

Then he dismisses the notion and gets back to thoroughly kissing John.


End file.
